Kewel Off
by lightning bird
Summary: Kids will be kids but adults are worse, especially when they're super-smart nerds with too much time on their hands.
1. Dex a la Mode

**Kewel Off**

by lightning bird

A/N This was an idea that's been in the back of my mind for a while, though exposure to Deserthaze caused it to morph into an actual story. Most of the characters belong to Cartoon Network, Chip Morton's name was lifted straight from Irwin Allen's _Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea_, and the rest have the dubious honor of belonging to me, as does this FuFa AU.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

**One: Dex a la Mode**

It was all Professor Utonium's fault. Of that there was no doubt. To his credit he never tried to deny the charge, but instead took smug pride in what he'd initiated.

It started innocently enough on Christmas morning almost four years prior. It was Dexter's first Christmas with the Utoniums and they all had a heightened sense of excitement with a new member of the family present. Utonium had been determined to make the holiday a memorable one for all the children and to include the boy genius in their traditions and maybe even to establish some new ones since Dexter was going to be a permanent member of the family in just two weeks' time.

With Dexter's newfound appreciation for gifts that carried genuine meaning and sentimental value, Utonium watched as the redhead carefully opened a small but heavy box that had been in his stocking. Sitting around the Christmas tree, they were taking turns opening the smaller presents, and the girls, catching on to their father's interest in this particular unveiling, were watching eagerly. Dexter's blue eyes grew wide as he opened the box to reveal an oddly-shaped scientific instrument made of copper and glass. It was a reproduction of a microscope made by Antonie van Leeuwenhoek in the 1670's – primitive by today's standards, but something the Professor was certain Dexter would value.

He was not disappointed. Dexter had looked thoroughly pleased and let out a little exclamation of delight as he lifted it from its bed of cotton.

"Ah! I've always wanted one of these!"

The Powerpuff Girls exchanged confused looks, and finally Buttercup demanded, "What the heck is it?"

Dexter was grinning, his eyes bright as he turned the microscope this way and that. "I have no idea, but it's kew-wel."

It took a moment for all the Utoniums to translate Dexter's meaning from _kew-wel _to _cool_. The girls pursed their lips, trying not to giggle. They adored the way he spoke, and never more than at this moment. They had known Dexter since June and they were for the most part used to his particular brand of pronunciation as he massacred the English language. He spoke, as General Shaan put it, like a refugee from the Soviet Bloc, with a thick accent best described as 'Russian but not quite.' He added syllables where they didn't belong and pronounced t's and d's at the end of words with sharp emphasis. Vowels didn't stand a chance against him and h's appeared where they just shouldn't. His inflection was off the wall and his vocabulary was nothing short of staggering – once you figured out what it was he was saying. The most amusing part of his accent, though, was the fact that he couldn't hear it and therefore had no reason to offer why he spoke in this distinct fashion in the first place.

Now and then, though, he came out with something new that would catch them completely off guard. This precise instant was a perfect example of Dexter's ability to throw them all for a loop.

Utonium fell back in his seat on the sofa, staring at the boy genius, hardly able to believe anyone, even Dexter, could wring multiple w's out of the word _cool _and get away with it. "It's what?"

"Kew-wel," Dexter repeated matter-of-factly, intent on figuring out what it was he held.

The Professor stared in speechless joy at this hitherto undiscovered source of entertainment. Without realizing it, Dexter had just given him another present in addition to the remarkable (and ridiculously rare and expensive) iron meteorite now perched atop the mantle. Patrick Lawrence Utonium had a new favorite word.

He had to hear it again, just to be sure. "It's . . ."

"Very kew-wel," confirmed Dexter, whipping off his glasses as he brought the lens into focus on a scrap of wrapping paper, completely ignorant of the happy epiphany occurring less than six feet away.

From that point on, Utonium smiled every time he heard Dexter declare something was kew-wel. It made no difference if he agreed or not, the pronunciation was enough in and of itself to charm him. The girls quickly caught on and so did Dexter's private tutors, though he himself remained blissfully ignorant of the effect the word had on people. As his fledgling company DexLabs began to take off like wildfire, Utonium's particular form of entertainment was picked up first by the development teams and then later by the production crews. It wasn't until their contractors and clients started keeping track of and expanding upon what was considered kew-wel and what was not that the Professor realized he'd created a monster (albeit a cute one).

Gradually Dexter's variation on cool became the ultimate compliment from the owner of DexCorp International, not to be confused with its milder form of _kewel, _which was for everyday use. Great store was set by their fiery little boss spontaneously declaring something to be kew-wel, and anyone that was awarded one had bragging rights throughout the corporation. It was the head of the aeronautics division of DexCorp who first started assigning different ratings to establish the Kewel Index. Geeks to the core, his team devised graphs and charts to justify and measure the value of one form of kewelness over another, a system that was quickly adopted throughout DexLabs as the interdepartmental battle to dominate that which was kewel raged. Dexter's mood was the determining factor in how high one's score went – the fouler his mood, the better the score. Thus a bit of praise from the boss when he was in his sweet Dextrose Mode or the relatively calm Red Menace Mode was not worth bragging about as much as a kew-wel when he was in the ruthless Dex Luthor Mode. The scale ranged all the way to the ultra-rare, completely enraged Tyrannosaurus Dex Mode kew-wel, of which to date only one had ever been (very grudgingly) granted and that to the aeronautics division at the unveiling of the _X-1 August_, prompting them to create the rating scale in order to protect their sovereignty.

When Army Major General Neelandu Shaan caught on to Professor Utonium's love of all things kew-wel, he very quickly found himself similarly amused. His fellow Plumber Max Tennyson was soon infected, though Shaan's aide, Colonel William Dearing, proved to be immune (which surprised no one, Dearing being completely resistant to fun and a certified wet blanket). DexLabs Security seemed to be among the departments worst afflicted by the kew-wel bug, with Sgt. Charles Morton emerging as the leader of the pack. At first the parties concerned were content simply to try to imitate Dexter's pronunciation of the word _cool_ (Utonium being disqualified from competition because of his home field advantage and relegated to judging, with Shaan emerging as the dark horse winner), but when the aeronautics division claimed ultimate victory with their T-Dex kew-wel in an email that resonated around the world, the bar was raised and the gauntlet was thrown down by the flyboy geeks in DexCorp International.

It fell to the Plumbers to respond, and they rose to the deliberate taunting with their usual intrepid daring and love of over planning. They would not be out-keweled. Not by eggheads armed with calculators and pocket protectors. Emails abounded. A date was set. Rules were established. Worthy champions were chosen. The competitors schemed. It was the jocks against the nerds, soldiers against scientists, military personnel against civilians, with the unfortunate Sgt. Morton suck in the no man's land between the two factions. The rules, as established by Dexter's physics tutor Kilroy Green, were simple – by the end of the business day, the person who managed to generate the best 'kewel' out of Dexter could claim to be the Kewelest of Them All. Everyone got just one shot and the judges were the other participants.

They were sworn to absolute secrecy and honesty. They could not vote for themselves and anyone who tipped Dexter off would be disqualified and declared unkewel. Not that Dexter would take the least notice. His attention was evenly divided between his own science projects, financing a war, beating Ben Tennyson's _Sumo Slammers Smashup Bashup IV_ score, and keeping the Department of Defense happy so that they'd leave him alone. The boy genius had not the least clue that he was the focal point and prize in a private war being fought across the board room table by his father, teacher, employee, client, and guest. He was intent on business, not the antics of a pack of bored adults. The very last thing on Dexter's mind was the first thing on theirs – namely, his accent.


	2. 126 vs the Teacher from the Black Lagoon

**Two: 126 Vs the Teacher from the Black Lagoon**

A/N My thanks to DesertHaze for putting up with me and this. It's all quite silly and pointless, I know, but I'm having fun with it.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Thought there was no way he could know it, Sergeant Charles Phillip "Chip" Morton, head of DexLabs Security, had served in the Kids Next Door with distinction and honor from the week he turned eight all the way up to the last hour before his thirteenth birthday. Promoted through the ranks until he was made second in command of Sector T, he had eventually been tapped to serve as KND Chief of Intelligence. His service was notable for having averted a disaster involving a bumper crop of Brussels sprouts being delivered to local schools, a herd of longhorn cattle, and twenty KND operatives with pea shooters. Further, he single-handledly took down the villainous barber Cross Hair, a pomade-slicked, bad poetry-spouting, 1950's hipster throwback who fiendishly inflicted pompadours on every kid that fell under his scissors.

Even now, twenty-five years later, Chip Morton was still looked up to as an outstanding example of what a KND operative should be. The memory of Number 126 had been erased only from Morton's mind, not from KND history. His tactical noogie technique was standard training for every new recruit and his record as Top Watergun was untouched for more than two decades. He had successfully campaigned for the addition of battle Frisbees to the Sector T arsenal and he was among the first to utilize the sherbet-induced brain-freeze during interrogation sessions.

Since the day Dexter had thrown open the doors to his corporate headquarters for use in the war against the Fusion Invasion (and simultaneously launching the mother of all security headaches with so many unsupervised minors running around the place emptying the vending machines, forgetting weapons in the restrooms, and making themselves hyperactive by eating pudding for breakfast), Morton had found himself the object of much hero worship from the Kids Next Door. He couldn't help but admire their spunk and how innovative the 2x4 technology was, but he honestly had no idea as to why so many of these kids would want his autograph or ask him to give them a noogie. His admiration gradually changed to confusion, finally settling on mild concern as to why the KND followed him around when he was performing the most mundane tasks and hung on his every word. So long as none of them tried to get near his boss he didn't much care what they were about. They did ask the stupidest questions, though:

_"Sergeant, can you hit a moving target at twenty yards with this squirt bottle?"_

_"I could if I threw it."_

_"How about this pea shooter?"_

_"Start running and let's find out."_

Or . . .

_"Do you hate Brussels sprouts more than anything else on the planet?"_

_"No."_

And then there was:

_"Sergeant Morton, can you show me that noogie again? Pleeeeeease? You can practice on me!"_

_"Scram."_

Another popular request:

_"Ooooh! Sergeant, could you arrest me?"_

_"Give me a reason."_

And . . .

_"What kind of haircut did you have in 1977?"_

_"Same one I have now. Get out of the fountain."_

Weirdest of all:

_"Do you know Action Jackson?"_

_"No."_

_"Down Under Man?"_

_"No."_

_"Mr. Morton, did you really show Chuck Norris how to boogie board on a tsunami in the middle of a hurricane?"_

"_WHAT?"_

It was endless, and things seemed to get more outlandish each passing day. Number Two, a nice enough kid, was his biggest KND-issued problem. He was a techno-fanboy and spent a great deal of time trying to analyze the DexTech throughout DexLabs headquarters. More than once Computress was forced to isolate him in a force field to stop him from dismantling the elevators. Every time Morton intercepted him, Number Two begged to be taken to Dexter and cited some new invention he wanted to dazzle the boy genius with. Morton very patiently explained that no one got to see Dexter unless Dexter wanted to see them. Morton knew perfectly well the contempt his boss had for 2x4 technology, though he didn't have the heart to tell his regular offender that Dexter had no interest or faith in any technology but his own.

As a sergeant of security at DexLabs, Morton had the most technically advanced babysitting job on the planet watching over a neurotic polymath that happened to be one of the smartest - if not _the_ smartest person alive, with one of the most inexplicable accents in existence. Working for a phobia-plagued genius wasn't so bad, but if Dexter was at the pinnacle of intelligence, then the people immediately surrounding him were just a small step down on that scale. Even that wouldn't have been so bad, but Morton had quickly learned that while kids will be kids, adults were worse, especially if they were super-smart nerds and had too much time on their hands. The aeronautics division had already proven as much with their Kewel Index.

And now, thanks to the Plumbers' refusal to grow up, he was thoroughly embroiled in their sordid little game of one-upmanship as the people closest to Dexter tried by any means possible to get him to say his variant on the word cool. Since Security was one of the few divisions within DexCorp that provided a service and didn't actually create anything, Morton came into the competition at a disadvantage. If he couldn't dazzle Dexter with technology, he was going to have to rely on technique. Though he tried to rise above their childish rivalries, General Shaan was Army, Morton was ex-Navy, and there was no way this Navy brat was going to stand back and let that Army brat win without a fight.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Kilroy Van Green was well aware of the awe with which he was treated by the employees of DexLabs and DexCorp International. He assumed it was because he was a demon and possessed of powers beyond those of normal humans and because of his startling appearance, but this was one of the few instances in his life where he was dead wrong. After the initial fright at the sight of green skin, horns, and pointy teeth, most people who spent five minutes in Green's company would have agreed that his appearance was quite elegant. Since Dexter was perfecting a transit beam, Green's employees were far more interested in analyzing his recipe for brownies than they were in figuring out how he could transport himself anywhere he wished in a pillar of flames. Biblical jokes aside, such things were expected when your boss was a fire demon, after all. And as for being a demon . . . well, the owner of DexLabs was fourteen with a pseudo-Russian accent, the girls he called his sisters were ultra super heroes that had been made in a basement lab out of baking ingredients, and his best friend purposely turned into a wide assortment of alien creatures. Working for a monster was pretty tame stuff by comparison.

No, the real cause of their awe was the fact that Green had survived almost daily exposure to Dexter over the course of the last three years, and not just survived, but managed to thrive. He actually adored his high-strung and highly demanding student. Most of the people at DexLabs dealt with Professor Utonium and saw Dexter only very, very rarely, and a large number of them had never met him at all since he spent most of his time in his laboratory and only seemed to emerge when he wanted to storm at some hapless department head. To hear Kilroy gush about how cute and sweet the boy was convinced many of the people on his team that while the demon was was a very good and caring person to work for, he was also mildly insane.

He had to admit that he was a bit nervous about the bet that had been planned for the day even though he had been the one to devise the rules and help set the date. His approach was, he hoped, a bit more innovative than his fellow competitors, but he was dependent upon outside resources to procure his kew-welness. It was a little daunting, especially since Professor Utonium had a leg up on them all seeing as how he knew Dexter the best (though Shaan could safely say that he'd known Dexter the longest) and he had been looking extremely smug when they met for coffee this morning. Of course that could have been a ploy designed to fill Kilroy with doubt. He hated to think it was working even a little bit.

He glanced at the clock once again. General Shaan and Max Tennyson were coming an hour before the meeting to take a look at the production facility here at DexCorp and to get a look at the latest weapon for use against Planet Fusion's invasion forces. The Hedge Trimmer was deceptively named on purpose, just as many of the weapons developed by Dexter were, but if it worked properly it would be effective against multiple Fusion monsters. Dexter was trying to design the Hedge Trimmer so it could be used several times in succession while Shaan was coming to convince the fussy boy genius to get it into production and worry about repeat performances from it at a later date. Max was coming just because he was nosy about anything that went boom and because he thought he was kewel and wanted to prove as much.

_In your dreams, Tennyson_, he thought, gathering up a file he needed for the meeting and trying to boost his own spirits. He had just enough time to get down to the main entrance and try to psyche out Sgt. Morton before he gave Max and the General their tour. With any luck, he'd get a chance to rattle the rest of the competition before the first annual kewel off got underway. He only hoped they didn't return the favor.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

". . . so if it wasn't a _Dex Bellorum_ mode kew-wel, it was at least a Red Square mode kew-wel because he followed up with an observation about mean temperatures and the effects of radiation expos - Ooops! Heads up! Substitute Creature alert. Ah! Mr. Green!"

Kilroy paused long enough to peer into the conference room where they'd be holding their meeting. Mung Daal, who had only recently taken over as head chef of the cafeteria at DexLabs (a Herculean task at the best of times, a nightmare now that there was a war and a whole army of hungry children to feed), was personally overseeing the coffee setup since Dexter and most of the staff were confirmed caffeine addicts and got cranky when denied their favorite beverage. A KND cook and Mung's apprentice, an overly enthusiastic little creature named Chowder, were listening with rapt attention as they set out coffee cups and pastries.

"I prefer to be called the Teacher from the Black Lagoon, Chef Daal," he called, wondering how anyone called him weird for wearing a cape when Mung Daal sported a kilt with his chef coat. He was a pleasant old man, though, and his skin was the same shade of blue as Kilroy's favorite cousin, scoring him some major points from the Research and Development Department.

"Just telling my staff how kew-wel I am according to our boss."

"Is this about the carrot soup last week?"

Mung raised a hand, polishing his nails on his chef coat and looking self-satisfied. "The same."

"I was there. The soup was too hot. Dexter said he had to let it cool off because he didn't want to burn his tongue."

"Nonetheless," argued Mung loftily. "Once the soup lost a few degrees, it would became kew-wel."

Kilroy rolled his eye and shook his head in good-natured teasing. "Pure technicality."

"Wanna bet?" grinned the chef.

"You're not kew-wel, Mung, your soup is."

"That's why I'm making vichyssoise for lunch today."

Kilroy groaned and stomped off.

Sgt. Morton was in the main entrance if the corporate headquarters. When he wasn't trying to keep Dexter from getting exposed to natural sunlight or apprehending one or all of the Test children, he was often to be found here perfecting his glare as he kept people from going where they shouldn't. Kilroy checked his watch. There was still exactly three minutes before the general and Max were expected. Shaan, at least, was nauseatingly punctual. Kilroy noticed that on top of his usual body armor, equipment, and weapons, Morton was carrying a Mark III Null-Void rifle, made specifically for DexLabs Security, but certainly never carried during non-emergency situations. He was immediately intrigued, his intent to intimidate forgotten in light of this development. Not about to waste a moment, the demon made a bee line for the walking blond arsenal.

"Sergeant," he said by way of greeting.

"Mr. Green."

"What's the rifle for?"

He replied in that unflappable military monotone he utilized when people tried to argue with him. "It's primary function is to emit a concentrated free-energy laser bolt at a target."

"Shooting people is not kew-wel."

"Depends on the target, sir."

Kilroy bristled, a gray mist rising as his reaction converted the air to smoke. "I forbid you to shoot Mandark."

"The thought hadn't entered my mind, sir, but I'll be sure to let the authorities know it was your suggestion."

"Oh, ha, ha. What are you doing with that rifle here, Sergeant?" he demanded, remembering his purpose was to rattle the enemy, not get himself worked up. He was so much better at controlling legions of children, not individual adults.

"Carrying it, sir," said Morton, refusing to be baited.

"Dexter is a crack shot, Chip. It's going to take more than that to impress him!"

"No doubt, sir."

It was like talking to a rock - or Dexter when he was being stubborn. Kilroy saw a flash of olive drab uniform and a Hawaiian print shirt as his 'guests' arrived. With no time to spare, he leaned in at Morton.

"You're going down in flames, Sergeant."

Finally the security sergeant reacted. He smirked.

"Isn't that _your_ job, Mr. Green?"

"Not today, Chipper!" he snapped before heading off to size up the rest of the competition. Maybe he'd have better luck with the general and Max, but so far it felt as if everything was backfiring. It did not bode well for his Kewel Index rating.


	3. Life Lists and the Dancing Shiva

**Three: Life Lists and the Dancing Shiva**

Sandra Tennyson had for many years kept what she called 'life lists.' They were simply a mental catalogue of things she had seen or done, such as keeping track of what types of birds she saw from the kitchen window over a season or different flavors of honey she had tasted. It was a habit she had passed on to her only son, though she would have been a little astonished and perhaps even mildly appalled at how his teenaged mind applied the simple exercise.

Ben Tennyson's current life lists consisted of how many different kinds of Fusion Monsters he'd destroyed since the start of the invasion by Planet Fusion, what Sumo Slammers merchandise he still wanted/needed to own, the smoothy flavor combinations he had yet to try, and all the crazy things he'd thus far discovered that frightened his best friend.

He'd never met anyone with more - and more varied - fears than Dexter, and he rightly suspected that he'd only scratched the surface. Dexter didn't even try to deny his many phobias, most likely because there were too many of them too close to the surface and most of the time his reactions were too extreme to ignore. He spent a lot of time gasping, sometimes squeaking or even screaming, backing away, and hiding behind the Professor. Luckily his adopted family took his neurotic tendencies in stride. His sisters the Powerpuff Girls worked on the assumption that everything unfamiliar would alarm him and let themselves be surprised on the occasions when his curiosity overwhelmed his apprehension.

Sometimes Ben thought it might be easier to inventory the things that Dexter _wasn't _afraid of, and the list grew just about every time he visited the boy genius. The kid was afraid of going outside alone, the dark (at least he had good reason for that, thank you Demongo), crowds, dirt, open water (swimming pools especially), germs, dirt, any animal not in a cage (especially dogs and talking animals, though he seemed less alarmed by reptiles), bugs, spiders, dirt, slugs, losing his hair, losing his calculator, losing his glasses, getting lost period, dirt, dodge ball, modes of transportation he hadn't designed himself, clowns (Ben could sympathize with that one), dirt, banjo music, being stuck on a desert island with Mandark, touching anything without his gloves on, being touched by anyone he didn't absolutely trust, thunder (though not lightning or explosions), dirt, less than perfect grades, DeeDee's friends, and - Ben's personal favorite - burritos.

And that was just a partial list. To combat his fears he rarely went outside (and never just by himself), dressed from head to toe in at least two layers of clothing, wore gloves even to eat, and he had layers upon layers of security and defenses between him and the world.

Ben would have paid just about any price to see Dexter go camping, even for a single night. It would be the nerdiest disaster in the history of everything. He knew that many of Dexter's phobias were justified, however, and not all his fears were irrational. The kid was ground zero for the Fusion invasion and he'd had a number of nasty encounters with animals and dirt and banjos (to wit, Fuzzy Lumpkins) that would scar anyone for life. Ben didn't blame Dexter or criticize him, mostly because he was just too much fun to watch and his accent never ceased to entertain.

On the upside, Ben could also say Dexter was completely unafraid of failure when it came to his inventions and business ventures, and he was capable of addressing large crowds and TV cameras on highly technical matters without flinching (provided he didn't have to get too close). He loved heights, speed, and flying, preferably all at once and preferably out of sight of Professor Utonium. He thought nothing of working with high explosives, corrosive acids and gases, or radioactive materials. He would stand up to anyone misusing math, misquoting Einstein, and bullies (which was how he acquired his cat, the only animal that didn't send him into a panic). In the event of being cornered, Dexter could and would fight and fight well, and he was territorial with his property, family, and friends. If anyone walked up to Ben right now and gave him a shove, Dexter would be the first to shove back, small though he was (and he was darned small – downright runty - despite being optimistic that he'd at least _start _to get taller soon).

It was definitely a matter of the size of the fight in the dog, though Ben was one of the few people who knew that Dexter never stepped foot out of his laboratory without at least one laser gun on his person, usually more. Dexter was the earth's foremost weapon against Planet Fusion, and the Plumbers, Department of Defense, his own security staff, and his father took no risks with his safety. With his glasses on he was a crack shot. Without them he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn from the inside.

He was reviewing his mental dossier on the boy genius as he rode the elevator down to Dexter's laboratory housed far beneath his corporate headquarters. Though he had no real connection to the meeting scheduled in an hour, Ben had come along with Grandpa Max and General Shaan to get away from the front lines while there was a lull in the war. He was always welcome in the Utonium household and since he was here he figured he'd keep Dexter company through the mind-numbing boredom of a bunch of eggheads talking production numbers and finances (though Dexter being Dexter, he'd probably find the meeting quite thrilling and feel the need to tell Ben exactly why) before dragging the kid off to do something that was actually fun and non-educational.

Walking through the lab towards the surprisingly small work station that was the heart and soul of DexCorp International, Ben spotted his neurotic friend hard at work on the computer. Dramatic lighting, deep shadows, and a crazy assortment of scientific instruments gave him the look of a mad scientist in his lair, which wasn't far off the mark.

"Yo, Dex!" he called, knowing it was dangerous to sneak up on the kid. When the redhead looked up, Ben waved his hand around at the massive laboratory. "Hey, isn't this exactly like the set they used in _Prom Scream: Revenge of the Zombie Queen?"_

Behind thick glasses those blue eyes narrowed sharply. Not to be outdone, Dexter immediately shot back, "No, Mr. Tennyson, it was _Space Zombies IV: Invasion Roswell_. Why would zombies need a laboratory if they were going to the prom? They went to the mall. Get your horror movies straight or hand in your fanboy card right now."

"Movie? I thought that one was a documentary." He dropped into the nearest available chair and immediately began rolling it about, pushing off with his feet and gliding around at random.

"No, the one where zombies took over NASA and managed to launch into orbit a satellite equipped with a zombie ray was a documentary."

Ben considered. "That would explain the 1980's."

Dexter nodded seriously as Ben rolled by. "Mmm."

"Ready for this meeting?"

"Yeah," he grunted, getting back to work even though he knew he'd get nothing done with Ben here to distract him. "It'll be uneventful, but it's necessary and it will give the Plumbers a good look at the Hedge Trimmer. I'm more looking forward to lunch afterwards, actually."

"Ditto. Y'know, Grandpa Max and the General were acting really weird on the way over here. Maybe seeing something that explodes will calm them down." Ben deliberately bumped his chair into Dexter's, pushing the younger teen across the floor. "You and that Hedge Trimmer of yours give a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Your ass is grass and I'm the lawn mower,' Dex."

Dexter shook his head as his chair came to a stop and slowly spun, trying not to succumb to childishness. It was a losing battle and he finally gave in, unable to keep a straight face when his friend was so very pleased with himself.

**OoOoOoOoOoOoO**

It took Neelandu Shaan the first seven years of his life to figure out he wasn't as human as the next kid. One day while the family was packing up to move to yet another Army base, he found an old picture of a pretty, six-armed, three-eyed, yellow-skinned, orange-haired woman in the family photo album standing beside a man he recognized as his grandfather. Having been raised a Hindu, people with multiple arms and eyes and skin in primary colors didn't shock him in the least. He knew enough to know it was a wedding picture, and young Neelandu got his first look at his late grandmother. He had always been told that Grandmama Kett was Delian, but he simply assumed that meant she came from New Delhi like his many cousins. He had underestimated the distance to grandma's house by several hundred light years. This discovery led him to some heavy (for a seven-year-old) pondering and ultimately he concluded that the statue of the four-armed Dancing Shiva on the mantle had to be his great-grandfather since he knew his grandfather quite well and he lacked any extra limbs.

The only one he shared this revelation with was his younger sister, Ami, who immediately concluded they were descended from gods. Neelandu had his doubts since they only had two arms apiece, but just as Ami was preparing to announce her divinity to the world their mother found out about the plot and ordered her husband to set the record straight. It was then that the Shaan children learned that their father's mother was from another planet entirely, while their mother's grandfather was English, which to their impressionable minds was almost as exotic. Ami was crushed that she was not to be worshipped while Neelandu was disappointed to be limited to two arms and two eyes, and though his skin had a distinct yellowish tint to it he wasn't sure which side of the family to give credit to for that.

He had followed in his father's footsteps in the Army and then some. It wasn't until Neelandu graduated West Point and a wholly new and unexpected set of recruiters came looking for him that he learned that his father's officer rank in the US Army was simply a cover for his real job as a Plumber. Delians were known for intense loyalty and intelligence, not to mention superior senses (including a few humans did not possess but helped to make the Shaans expert marksmen and excellent judges of character). They were one-man dogs to a fault and formed unbreakable attachments to people and causes, something the Plumbers understood and tried to turn to their advantage. While Captain Varun Shaan's ultimate loyalty was to the Plumbers, if push came to shove Major General Neelandu Shaan's allegiance lay with the Army.

Today Neelandu Shaan was perfectly fine with absolute loyalty to Uncle Sam seeing as how he was going to throw the full weight of the United States Army behind his effort to prove that he was indeed kew-weler than the civilian geeks, the Navy, and all his fellow Plumbers, especially Max Tennyson. Shaan rarely pulled out the stops, but a few favors called in and stern reminders of who sported more scrambled eggs on their cover would go far toward reminding his fellow competitors that he wasn't a general for nothing. And not just a general, but a very kew-wel one at that.

Speaking of fellow competitors, he spotted two more of them the moment he walked through the main doors of DexLabs Headquarters with Max Tennyson. True to form, Green seemed to have gotten himself worked up without any help. He glanced at Max and they exchanged a smirk at the demon's flustered expression. One down and they didn't even have to do anything. Unless it was an act . . . Shaan's eyes narrowed. No. Kilroy wasn't the type. The _real _threat in this competition was Utonium, but Morton, who was doing a very good imitation of a statue, was an unknown element.

And why was he carrying a rifle . . .?

In a little tell-tale swirl of smoke, Kilroy gave up on Morton and came to greet them. "Are you gentlemen ready for your tour?" he demanded shortly, visibly fighting to reign in his annoyance. It was too good an opportunity for the Plumbers to pass by.

Max smiled benevolently. "Of course. Are you ready to acknowledge I'm the kew-welest one here?"

"Hardly!" growled the demon, going from annoyed to indignant.

"That's good," Shaan casually said, pulling off his uniform hat. "Because we all know I'm kew-weler by far."

Max rolled his eyes and Kilroy shook his head at this display of smug assurance.

"Keep deluding yourselves, gentlemen," invited Green, heading for the elevators. He smiled and held the doors for them. "You'll be kew-wel the day Mandy smiles."

"It could happen," Max muttered, though he didn't sound too certain.

"It might," agreed Shaan as he walked past Max, "but I don't know if any of us would live to tell the tale."


	4. The Process of Elimination

**Four: The Process of Elimination**

Zero hour. The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor of the corporate headquarters to reveal Sgt. Morton of DexLabs Security standing waiting to escort Dexter to the meeting, as usual. It wasn't a far walk, but Morton didn't care since it was his job to keep his teenaged boss safe and he was first up in the Kewel Off.

"So what's for lunch?" Ben was asking.

Dexter automatically waited for Morton's nod that all was secure before he stepped out of the elevator. "I'm not exactly sure. We have a new head chef and while he's quite a good cook he has a tendency to give foods very odd names, so it's hard to tell what the meal is until it's served."

Ben grinned. "So it's like the mystery meat in Bellwood Middle School cafeteria."

"Not that frightening."

Dexter checked Ben's watch (he almost never wore one since he rarely cared about the time of day) and, dropping his friend's arm, said, "Good morning, Sergeant." They walked down the hall and Dexter eyed his employee with interest. "Why are you carrying a rifle?"

Morton waited until they rounded the corner to answer. "Drill team practice, sir."

"You've got a _drill_ team?" demanded Ben, unsurprised. He still hadn't recovered from the fact that DexLabs had a NASCAR team. With purple stockcars, no less. Ben never let Kevin forget (and Mr. Levin still hadn't forgiven himself) he turned down an invitation for a weekend excursion with the Utoniums earlier this year, only to find out after that they had gone to the Talladega Superspeedway for a Nationwide Series race.

He looked at Dexter, recognized confusion when he saw it, knew that brilliant mind was drawing the completely wrong conclusions, and hastily added, "_Not_ the hand tool, Dex. Drill teams! Like in a marching band. Haven't you ever seen a halftime show at a high school football game? Rifles? Sabers?"

Dexter gave him a look that said all. He had no idea of what the older teen was talking about. Ben raised his hands.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to suggest you might do something normal."

"Sergeant, explain, please," was Dexter's thinly veiled command.

"Precision drill teams, sir. They perform modified routines based on military drills. I was captain of the team when I was in Annapolis. Maybe I could show you what I mean?"

Dexter checked Ben's wrist again. They had a few minutes before the meeting started and the other participants were waiting down the hall. "Yes. Do so."

"Stand back, sir. This can take a bit of space."

Interested now, the boys obeyed. Morton stood at attention, resting the stock of the rifle on the ground and gripping it by the barrel. With a kick he flipped the heavy gun into his hands then twirled it vertically before him before stopping it cold between his palms. Dexter blinked in astonishment, knowing how much the gun weighed (and cost).

Alerted that attempted kewelness was in the works, the rest of the would-be kewelest came to size up the competition. They arrived just as Morton began to spin the rifle before him with one hand, catching the stock neatly and effortlessly before he flipped the gun to the side with the flick of the wrist and then twirled it behind his back, seamlessly switching hands.

Dexter growled as a muffled ring came from the pocket of his lab coat. Pulling out his phone, he grimaced as he recognized the phone number.

"_How did he get this number?"_ he hissed to Utonium, holding out the phone so his father could see who was calling him directly.

With a little groan Utonium made the same face and shrugged helplessly, equally annoyed and rather put off that this was a call that could not be ignored because Chip's solo drill routine was remarkably impressive. So focused was the former Navy SEAL on flipping the rifle across his shoulders that he missed Dexter turning away to take the call. With forced enthusiasm Dexter opened the phone and said, "Good morning, Chancellor. What can I do for you?"

Chip's rifle only stopped moving to add emphasis to the routine, be it balanced across his outstretched arm, held at eye-level, or tapped to the floor. He switched the twirling gun from hand to hand with fluid grace as he spun and maneuvered it with speed and precision that belied its bulky weight. Plumbers and scientists alike stared in fascination at this remarkable display of strength, timing, and coordination. They looked to the general for confirmation that this was as extraordinary as they thought and were glad to see Shaan was gaping right along with them as Morton neatly passed the gun around his neck and then twirled it over his head, dropping briefly to one knee to catch it before rising. The rifle butt tapped on the ground and he swung it in a wide circle, ending with his arm almost fully extended before him and the barrel of the gun in a tight grip. Nerds and soldiers alike stared, looking for any movement or waver but the gun stayed steady as a rock.

"Do that again," challenged Shaan.

Morton complied, flipping the rifle neatly down before swinging it in another circle behind him. He held the weapon out, then snapped it back to attention and brought it down to his side.

Dexter whirled as he slapped the phone closed and thrust it into Kilroy Green's hands. "Mr. Green! This phone has been compromised! I need a new one with a new number." He folded his arms across his chest and railed, "I don't know how he got that number. That was the German chancellor asking stooopid questions. Why do Eastern Bloc countries keep asking if I'm related to someone named Baron Boris Von Badenov? That's the third time this month!"

They stared at him, realizing he had missed almost the whole drill routine because of the German chancellor. Dexter was fed up and frustrated and expecting an answer. He stared back at their astonished faces, taking in their shock and Chip's crushed expression.

"What?" he demanded. He focused on the rifle in his security sergeant's hand and realized he'd been distracted through almost all of the command performance. He went from angry to disappointed in seconds. "Could you do it again?"

That was expressly against the rules. Chip shook his head.

"You have your meeting, sir. Maybe later."

Dexter was clearly surprised by his subdued tone. "Yes, please, Sergeant." He glanced at Ben, who had no answer for Morton's shift in attitude, and followed his friend to the meeting room.

"That was kew-wel," confirmed Utonium, and heads bobbed all around as Morton wallowed in agony at having his once chance in the competition blown by a nosy foreigner.

"You may have opened yourself up to a whole new brand of trouble, Chip," added Green, glancing down at the phone. He replaced Dexter's phone about once a month, so this was nothing unusual. "He'll probably want a drill team after this."

"On the upside of that, you'll probably get a raise," Utonium provided.

Max clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Nice drill."

"That was way kewel," agreed the general, managing an excellent imitation of Dexter's pronunciation despite his own Texas accent. "If he had seen it, it would have been at least a wicked kew-wel."

Morton groaned and hung his head. "With all due respect, sir, it's just not the same coming from you."

Still, despite their sympathy, the remaining competitors could not help but smile.

One down.

All eyes drifted to Max as he braced himself for his one shot at fame and kewelness. Digging into his pocket, he closed his hand around a small object and said, "Wish me luck."

"No," four voices snapped.

Ben was still fussing over his coffee when Max approached Dexter. The Plumber was doing his best to be subtle, but with three-and-a-half sets of eyes boring into him and the Plumbers' reputation at stake, it was difficult at best.

"Dexter, you've got a cat, right?"

He looked up from where his nose had been buried in paperwork. "I do," he said, smiling a bit at the mention of his pet. "Einstein."

With his best grandfatherly smile, Max set a small, silvery ball on the table in front of the boy. It was a little smaller than a golf ball and the surface was crisscrossed by fine lines that broke the surface into segments.

"Here. I was going through some things the other day and I thought this would make the perfect cat toy."

Dexter looked without touching, knowing better (especially with his father watching). "What is it?"

"It's called a felsphere. You just give it a little squeeze, then roll it like this."

He demonstrated, rolling the ball out across the table. On its own the felsphere took a crazy, zigzag course across the table before reversing direction and coming right back to Max.

"Fascinating," said Dexter, wide-eyed.

"It has a bounce mode, too. You squeeze it twice." He pressed twice on the little ball and gently tossed it. It bounced here and there across the table, avoiding the edge and sending a few reports sliding. Dexter grinned in delight.

"Where is it from?" he asked.

Max caught it and handed it over. "A planet called Arcturillia."

Dexter dared to prod the little sphere with one finger. Instantly it bounced about before returning. He laughed. "How does it work?"

"There you've got me. Maybe you can tell me next time I visit. It has a lot of different settings to figure out. In one mode it will even hover."

"Einstein would _love_ that. He loves chasing . . . bugs." He said the last word only with difficulty.

"Experiment with it," invited Max. "Just hold the different sections down a few seconds. There are a lot of combinations."

Dexter lifted it between two fingers. The felsphere shifted, tiny panels opening on its surface. When it was done morphing it was bright red and shaped much like a top. It began spinning in place on his palm.

"How does it turn off?"

"Just hold it in your hand a few seconds."

He obeyed and the small device went still, returning to the original silvery sphere. "That is incredible," the boy genius said, intrigued. He smiled at Max, openly pleased. "Thank you so much, Max. I can promise you that Einstein will get a great deal of entertainment out of this." He looked at the marvel of technology and added, "And so will I if I can get him to share."

"You like it?" hinted Max.

"Very much so. It's a remarkable bit of engineering. Thank you again."

That and a smile was his final answer. Max forced a little grin as if he was perfectly satisfied with these thanks and went to fetch some coffee and keep Morton company.

"Fascinating," quoted Utonium.

"Remarkable," added the general.

"Incredible," finished Kilroy Green. "A must-have for all bug chasers."

"I'll get you one, Roy," Max grumbled in annoyed disappointment. "Let's see you do better."

"Okay," said Shaan.

"Welcome to my world," muttered Morton, taking a seat at the back of the room. He was intent on drowning his sorrows in coffee.

"Gentlemen," said Dexter, standing. "Time to begin."

It was the sort of mind-numbing meeting that only a hard-core nerd could enjoy. Ben Tennyson paid no attention whatsoever to what was being said since everything but the words 'and,' 'the,' and 'but' went straight over his head. Instead he basked in the sheer dullness of numbers and finances. He almost committed a gross breach of geek etiquette when he started falling asleep, but Dexter slid a pad and pencil into his elbow, jolting him out of his doze. Across the top page Dexter had written _Doodle!_, thereby saving his friend from the embarrassment of having to be woken up.

Happy to obey, Ben gave every indication of industry thereafter, enjoying Dexter's accent as he idly sketched Vilgax with Mandy's hair. Three pages of various alien sketches later (some of which Ben figured could be considered self-portraits) Dexter called a break, knowing the effect so much coffee would have on his audience.

An instant later a yelp from the hall got their attention and they all jumped at the unexpected sound. Morton darted out first, rifle at the ready, backed up by the general and Max (both of whom were allowed to be armed in the corporate headquarters). Kilroy Green, who had not considered such a violent reaction to his attempt at kewelness, let out a louder yelp and dashed after them in a high state of unkewel alarm. Utonium laid hold of Dexter and kept him from going to see what was happening, not about to risk his son despite the fact that Dexter had a Null-Void laser in hand.

"Daaaad," whined the thirteen-year-old as he displayed his requisite weapon.

"Tough," his father replied mercilessly.

"I'll go check, Dex," volunteered Ben. "Hang on."

He vanished into the hall to figure out why there were voices being raised. Utonium and Dexter exchanged a look and a few seconds later Ben returned. He wore an expression midway between disbelief and shock.

"It's okay. It's . . ." He flailed. He didn't have the words to describe the scene in the hall. ". . . weird."

"Who's making that hideous sound?" asked Dexter.

Ben Tennyson shook his head. "Him."

Dexter looked up, Utonium looked down, and they both sighed. It made no difference to them that Mr. Green was rather taken with the Ultimate Evil and they didn't much care if Him popped in occasionally so long as the demon stayed well away from the labs and production facilities. This seemed a bit more over the top than usual, though. They wore the same puzzled expression as they went into the hall with Ben following closely behind. Him sat against the wall clutching one foot in his claws and acted as if the world was ending, ignoring the Null-Void rifle at point-blank range before him.

"Scuffed! This is a disaster! Look! Look at it! Look at my boot! Can't you see it, Sergeant?"

Morton, who had the unfortunate luck to be closest to the red-skinned demon, looked at the rather small foot raised gracefully toward him and said,

"No."

"You need glasses! It's right there! Oh, my innocent toes! Forced to endure scuffed patent leather!"

Kilroy slapped a hand to his face as Him lifted a claw to his forehead in true diva fashion and moaned dramatically as he crushed his tulle collar. Green looked as if he either wanted to strangle Him or for the floor to open up and swallow him, much to the amusement of Max and Shaan. Morton looked to where Mr. Green was trying his best to die of shame.

"Sir?"

"I'll kill him myself, Chip," muttered Kilroy. "Thanks."

Dexter stood behind and to the side of Morton. "What are you doing, Him?"

"Suffering!" he wailed.

"Yeah, and you're sharing the wealth," was the impatient, unimpressed retort.

"I tripped on _your_ stairs and scuffed _my_ Italian leather boot, you little menace! I should sue!"

Dexter snorted. He and Him tolerated one another purely for the sake of Kilroy Green, but they shared a very grudging respect.

"You're in my facility. I should have you arrested for trespassing."

"Brat!"

"Mr. Green?"

In sheer desperation, the physics tutor goaded, "He's just lost his . . ."

"Mind," Dexter provided, completely missing his cue. Wide-eyed and sympathetic, he looked up at his tutor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Green. Perhaps you'd like some time off?"

Kilroy shook his head the tiniest bit, filled with disgust, foiled by a word. "I'm going to need _something_ after this."

"I've got scotch in my office," volunteered Utonium.

"I'll start there. Why do I keep forgetting he was defeated by kindergarteners? Scotch, you said, Pat?"

"_After_ the meeting," the Tyrannosaurus Dex growled. "Five minutes, gentlemen. Him, be gone."

He strode off. Ben shrugged and followed. Him beamed up at Kilroy, delighting in the green demon's glare.

"Too over the top, Turtledove?"

"You were supposed to lose your cool, not your sanity," Kilroy snapped.

Not in the least put off by this reaction, Him grinned. "See you later, Kilroy?"

"Yes. Now go harass someone that deserves it. Not Dexter! I mean that!" he added hastily as Him vanished in a puff of pink smoke. He looked at his fellows and threw his hands up. "Fine. Say it. Pathetic. Weak. Un-kewel."

No one argued.

"Interesting approach to the competition," allowed Max. "Welcome to the runners-up circle."

"Get in line," was Sgt. Morton's only greeting.


	5. Dexpertise

**Five: Dexpertise**

The meeting resumed but in twice the allotted time. It was General Shaan who caused the delay when he drew Dexter off to the side for a moment, and the Dex Luthor mode was switched off like a light. All the people attending the meeting save Ben saw fit to get coffee at that exact time so as to eavesdrop. Ben, already fortified with a fresh cup of coffee, continued with his appointed task of doodling, stealing Dexter's engineering pencil since it had a finer tip than the one he'd been issued. He dialed through the aliens in the Omnitrix, looking for inspiration, and had just started drawing a zombie Galvin when Dexter came bounding over in a rare display of energy.

"Ben! Benjamin! Pay attention! Get ready to be jealous!"

Ben looked up from his doodling. "I already am. I always dreamed of being a short nerd in glasses but instead I grew up heroic."

"Pfft. You fail," was the perfectly serious, perfectly sarcastic reply. "You couldn't handle being me."

"Probably not," he agreed easily. "So what am I going to be drooling over?"

"General Shaan is going to let me drive one of the new Sumner Tanks the next time I go out to the Aberdeen Proving Grounds!"

"Awww!" Ben exclaimed, instantly jealous. He fell into his seat and let the notion steamroll his senses. "That is so _cool!"_

The younger boy was grinning in excitement. "Isn't it? I can't wait!"

Unnoticed by the enthusing teenagers, General Shaan let out a little groan and closed his eyes as Ben took the word right out of Dexter's mouth. Fortunately Dexter called the meeting to order and in twenty minutes they concluded before anyone could perish from boredom, with Dexter very grudgingly agreeing to produce five dozen Hedge Trimmers for the US Army. They had finished early so there was still time before their luncheon, and the participants in the Kewel Off were waiting like vultures to get their talons into the general. Bracing himself, Shaan turned to face the music. His peers had about as much mercy for him as he'd displayed toward them.

"Ben thinks you're cool," consoled Max, careful of his pronunciation.

His fellow Plumber cast him a look most sour. "It's not the same."

Mr. Green was keeping Sgt. Morton company in his brown study.

"So . . . technically speaking, so far we're all a bunch of losers," observed the demon. He seemed rather philosophical over the whole affair, earning him growls and dirty looks from the rest of the competitors who did not take getting pasted with such grace.

"So far," agreed Max, hoping Professor Utonium crashed and burned along with the rest of them.

"Welcome to the club, Sir," gloated Morton, delighted that the Army had followed in the Navy's wake.

Shaan's square jaw seemed to grow squarer still. "Speak for yourselves, gentlemen," he said stiffly, eyeing his ginger-haired prey across the room. "I was closer than anyone else so far. This is only a setback. I just haven't won yet."

Eyes were rolled and snickers ensued at such arrogance.

"You transcended that which is kewel, Neel. So what's Plan B?" Utonium wondered, his gray eyes bright with amusement at the collective impasse.

"I'm working on it," the general snapped, folding his arms in a huff. "So show us how it's done, O master."

"Watch and learn, gentlemen," the geneticist replied as he reached into the pocket of his lab coat. He withdrew a round plastic container used for growing cultures. "Behold."

"Looks like dog vomit," muttered Max, eyeing the nasty yellowish mass.

"No, that would be a _Fuligo septica_ and I know he already has one of those."

"That's kew-wel?" demanded Shaan skeptically. "More like gross! What is that crap, Patrick?"

"Dexter will know." Utonium was smugness itself as he led the way back to the table. The boy genius was still looking at the blueprints for the Hedge Trimmer when the Professor slid the container across the paper. Dexter blinked, startled, and then seized upon the sample with an exclamation of delight, recognizing it instantly.

"Ah! Dad! Where did you find this?"

Utonium grinned. "One of Ben's sneakers, actually."

"What?" squawked the younger Tennyson, pale and horrified.

"On the outside, not the inside," he assured. "When you came back from that battle in New Brunswick two months ago."

"What is it?" asked Ben, afraid to know. He poked at the container with his stolen pencil.

"_Dictyostelum discoideum_," Dexter gushed, his eyes positively aglow with nerdish joy. "Dad, this is _awesome_! I've been trying to find one of these for ages!"

Unnoticed by Dexter, Utonium slumped. Awesome was not kew-wel or even kewel. Meanwhile, the redhead glanced at Ben and translated, "It's a slime mold."

Ben stared, hardly able to believe his ears even though this _was_ Dexter and he _should_ expect weirdness to such a degree out of anyone so geeky.

"I collect them," explained the younger boy when there was zero response. Ben kept on staring. Dexter squirmed a bit. "You collect dolls!"

Instantly Ben was indignant. "Action figures!" he defended hotly. "And that's - that's mold!"

_"Slime_ mold!" Dexter corrected in lofty tones. "It's a completely different kingdom."

"Yeah, well, the same could be said of dolls and action figures."

The Professor let out a little squeak of disappointment as all potential kew-welness was engulfed in a pointless argument.

Dexter was astounded. "Dolls are classified?"

"Action figures! And I don't want to hear it from someone that collects mold!"

"Slime molds are not mold!" He closed his hands around the container as if to protect his prize from being falsely accused, scandalized that anyone could mistake a slime mold for mold. "The name is misleading!"

"Precisely." Ben crossed his arms, defending his hobby. "Action figures aren't dolls."

They glared at one another. Finally Dexter seemed to gather neither of them was gaining ground. Grudgingly he said,

"I won't pick on your collections if you won't pick on mine."

"Action figures and slime molds," confirmed the green-eyed teen. "Deal." He looked at the unsavory blob. He'd seen similar messes in the aftermath of Upchuck and horror films. "So how many you got?"

"This makes thirty-seven. They're very exciting. I'll show you my collection after the meeting. Ooooh! This one is about to enter the migration phase." He beamed at Utonium. "Thank you, Dad. I love it."

Defeated, the Professor forced a smile and beat a sullen retreat, facing his peers sourly.

"You sure showed us, Pat," Neelandu Shaan gloated.

Max raised his finger in an authoritative manner. "Awesome is not the new kewel."

"Now what the heck will I give him for his birthday?" griped the president of DexCorp.

Mr. Green, still shaking his head in embarrassment over Him's appalling performance, looked to his fellows on this losing end of the bet. Neel was annoyed. Pat was depressed. Chip was still moping in his corner. Max was wallowing in disbelief. "What if he doesn't say it? What if none of us are kew-wel?"

Shaan's dark eyes narrowed and he refused to surrender. "There's always the advertising meeting in September."

"You're uninvited," grumbled Utonium.

"I don't know if I can handle more disappointment," Kilroy admitted.

Over at the table, Dexter set the slime mold aside for future gloating and returned to the blueprints. Ben had abandoned his bad renditions of various alien zombies upon discovery of the felsphere. Almost unconsciously he began to toy with it, rolling the silvery ball back and forth between his hands much the way Einstein would have batted it about. He chucked as the thing's internal system made it dodge this way and that, never taking the same course twice.

"Hey Dex, what is this thing?"

Dexter looked up from his paperwork. "A cat toy."

He caught the ball, closing his hand around it tightly. "Seriously?"

"Yes. Your grandfather gave it to me for Einstein. He called it a felsphere. It's a toy of some sort from a planet called Arcturillia. It's supposed to have multiple settings, but in this form it's safe for a cat . . . or easily amused children."

"Don't let Kevin see it," advised Ben, looking it over. "He'll want one."

"Like you do?"

"Einstein likes me," was the confident reply. "He'll share."

A snort arose from the boy genius. "Don't bet on it, Mr. Tennyson."

A little shudder moved through the sphere and as Ben watched in fascination the metallic ball reconfigured itself right there in his palm. The surface seemed to shift and flow as tiny panels on it opened and closed, moving with clockwork precision. When it settled down again, it was slightly larger than before, electric blue, shaped like a won-ton, and there was a small button at the very top.

Ben stared, astonished. "Hey Dex, what does this button do?"

Dexter, absorbed in mental recalculations for the Hedge Trimmer, barely registered the question for a few moments. He looked up abruptly. "Button? What button?"

"This one," said Ben, and pressed it before Dexter could scream (his first choice), lunge across the space between them (second choice), dive under the table (tied for second choice), or even fully realize what was happening.

Several things happened in that same instant. The felsphere shot out of Ben's hand to hover over his head, flattening out to form a silvery disk. The boys looked up in slack-jawed amazement. A sound like a bug zapper working overtime filled the air. With a loud cry Dexter threw himself over the slime mold. Ben let out a yelp of pain and surprise as a crackling yellow flash enveloped him for a split second.

"Ben, don't loo – crud," breathed Dexter, emerging from behind his gloves.

Ben Tennyson blinked, turning to his friend. His face was blackened as if soot had been blasted right at his nose and his hair was blown stiff and straight back from his face. A wisp of smoke rose up and dissipated, leaving behind a smell of singed hair and ozone.

Silence. Dexter gaped at Ben in wordless delight that only a teenage boy would appreciate as he saw his best friend get microwaved by an alien cat toy. The adults stared, too far away and too shocked to do anything about the situation and now torn between hilarity and hysteria. If looks could have killed Max Tennyson would have been meeting his maker. Able to feel the eyes boring into his back, he cast Utonium and his posse of Dexter fanboys an uncomfortable glance.

Max took one look at the smoking ruins of his grandson and grimaced. "I, uh, thought that setting was disabled," muttered Max. "Sorry. It's, uh, supposed to sanitize the play area once the kids are done playing. The Arcturillians are really conscious of dirt . . . and germs . . . and dander. I . . . I can turn it off."

The Professor frowned, quashing any further comments.

Suddenly the felsphere dropped out of the air, bouncing off of Ben's wind-tunnel hair and landing on the table as a small ball once again. Dexter's eyes grew wider still, and a slow grin spread across his face. He slapped a hand down.

"Ahhh!" he gushed in happy admiration, rising to his feet for a better view of the fallout. "Ben! That was _kew-wel!"_

Across the table and the room, five adult men groaned as the agony of defeat made itself known to them all.

"Eh. Cool," echoed Ben, looking shell-shocked.

Dexter reached out and swiped the tip of Ben's nose, beaming at the soot.

"_Fuh-reek-ing kew-wel_, Mr. Tennyson!"

"Yeah. Freakin' cool. Not," wheezed the teen.

Louder groans erupted as Ben 10 trounced the lot of them without even trying, and those who didn't indulge in a facepalm just shook their heads and turned away in shame. To add insult to injury, Ben hadn't actually _done_ anything to earn the vaunted achievement while their kewel indexes plummeted and a whole new standard of kew-welness was set. Getting flash-fried was a cheap price to pay for the rapid-fire kew-wels even if Dexter was in his Red Square mode. Ben wasn't just kew-wel, he was fuh-reek-ing kew-wel, the miserable, title-snatching cretin.

"Do it again!" begged Dexter.

Ben stared in disbelief. The little creep was serious.

"No!"

He pointed a purple-gloved finger with absolute authority. "Didn't I warn you that channeling DeeDee is dangerous?"

Ben slid the toy over in front of Dexter. "Einstein can have it."

"Pfft. He's not getting this. I like my cat with hair, thank you." He reached for the felsphere, but a large hand closed over his wrist before he could touch it. Dexter looked up to protest, then shut his mouth as Professor Utonium scooped up the little device instead. Both boys wisely said nothing as the President of DexCorp confiscated the alien technology and stalked off again, muttering under his breath. Ben watched him go and then faced his friend.

"Do I still have eyebrows?"

"Um . . ." Dexter pursed his lips uncomfortably. "By that do you mean ones that haven't been carbonized?"

Ben groaned.

His grandfather tried to salvage the situation. "Technically speaking, though, it was my gift that-"

"Don't even _think_ about it, Max," warned Kilroy dangerously, glaring hard at the Plumber. Smoke was rising up around the fire demon and Max backed down. He'd heard what Mr. Green was capable of doing when he had his Irish up; he didn't want to find out firsthand.

"I can't believe we lost to a kid that collects dolls," railed Shaan.

"Action figures," four humorless voices corrected.

Utonium glared, ready, willing, and able to pounce on anyone that commented on his kid collecting slime molds, but they wisely kept their mouths shut.

"So now what happens?" asked Morton.

Suggested Max, "Lunch?"

"We admit that I should have won," the general answered.

"Pffft," Morton snorted with a hearty glare.

"We need to brush up on our Dexpertise," Kilroy sighed.

The other four men paused.

"Our what?" asked Utonium, intrigued.

"Dexpertise," said Green, lapsing into lecture mode. "We all thought we knew enough about him to get him to say kew-wel. We were wrong. Therefore, we're lacking the knowledge that would make us Dexperts."

Sly looks were exchanged, ending with a glare fest between Utonium and Shaan.

"_I'm_ the Dexpert here," declared the Professor.

Shaan rolled his eyes. "Please. Father of a teenage boy? He tells you _nothing_, Patrick. I knew him years before you did."

"I'll just ask Ben," Max announced, content with this solution.

Morton shouldered his rifle. "I've been babysitting that kid for years."

"I've been his teacher for years!" Kilroy insisted, refusing to be left out.

"So what, is there a quiz next?" asked Max.

Neelandu Shaan sighed and rolled his eyes. "Tennyson, get your terminology right. It's a Dexam."

"Dexamination," corrected Kilroy loftily.

They all turned for a look at the object of their obsession. Dexter was assuring Ben that his eyebrows were not entirely gone and would grow back faster than a new set could be cloned.

"You have no idea how lucky you were that was Ben and not Dexter, Max," said Utonium. "And it's not just because he's my son."

"Oh? Why?" asked Max, guilt over his grandson's charred condition coming on strong.

"If you were a Dexpert, you'd know," the Professor replied, his smile smug as he walked over to the boys to have a look at Ben.

"Tiebreaker?" suggested Morton.

Shaan dark eyes narrowed. "Next meeting. One question and you'd better have the right answer. Dexpert takes all. Agreed?"

The others nodded, already plotting.

Professor Utonium, meanwhile, crouched before Ben's chair and gave the toasted teen a once-over. He smiled to see Dexter looking a little anxious after the initial thrill and quietly reassured them.

"You're fine, Ben. You just got a bit of a sunburn. I'll have Computress monitor you for any side-effects. Why don't you go take a shower in my lab and meet us for lunch? Dexter can show you where it is." Turning to his son, he added, "And since you haven't seen Ben in so long, why don't we just cancel your afternoon aerodynamics class and you two go play video games or something?"

Dexter visibly sparked at the idea, looking to Ben. The older boy, still ridiculously blackened, nodded in agreement. A gleam lit Dexter's eyes as he watched his father rejoin the other adults.

"See?" he said in a voice just above a whisper. "I told you he was the kewelest!"

Professor Utonium paused, but only he and Ben had heard. Glancing behind, he was met by bright, knowing eyes and an impish, adoring smile from the one person whose opinion mattered most today. Slowly he returned the smile, needing nothing more to know he'd won not just for now, but always.

_- Fin -_


End file.
